


When The Glory Comes (It'll Be Ours)

by Tortellini



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst, Civil Rights Movement, Gen, Historical Accuracy, Historical Hetalia, Historical References, Minor Violence, Period-Typical Racism, Police, Police Brutality, Protests, Racism, Violence, Wordcount: 500-1.000, peaceful protests
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-27
Updated: 2017-06-27
Packaged: 2018-11-19 21:09:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11321799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tortellini/pseuds/Tortellini
Summary: (1960s/ Civil Rights Movement) The personification of the American state Alabama witnesses the African American Civil Rights Movement--and Martin Luther King Jr. in person. But what starts out as a peaceful march quickly escalates to a full blown riot... and he himself wonders if he'll be able to see his people be treated as equals.Oneshot





	When The Glory Comes (It'll Be Ours)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by ["Glory"](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/302988) by John Legend, made for the movie Selma. 



> ( Alabama's human name is Aaron Jones, though he's not called this (just "Mr. Jones" once); faceclaim is Adonis Bosso. If it's not clear he is black)

_Alabama: Selma to Montgomery_   
_March 7, 1965_   
_Bloody Sunday_

Alabama was sitting on the side of the curb, his long knees drawn to his chest. He couldn't help but start to bite his short fingernails anxiously. Bad habit. All around him, people were milling around. Men standing off to the side with tired frowns, women gossiping to each other in little clumps, children hanging onto their older brothers and sisters' hands.

To Alabama, they were just people. Amazingly mortal compared to him, actually. But to the rest of the south, they were "negroes".

"Mister Jones?"

Alabama stopped biting his nails and looked to see a little boy, maybe eight or nine. He was dressed in his Sunday best. The first thing Alabama noticed was that he had the biggest brown eyes...

"Do you know when Mr. King is gonna get here?" The boy asked, rocking back and forth on his feet.

"Doctor King," he corrected automatically. Then he paused. That was a good question. "I don' know, little man. But he'll be here soon. Not long now."

The boy nodded and climbed up on the curb next to him. "I'm missing church, but Mama and Papa say it's all right. Say this is important."

"Oh it is," Alabama agreed. He remembered when native Africans were still being brought over from hulking slave ships; when white men would open the bottoms of the ships and the men would fall out, reeking in disease... He shuddered and felt sick.

"Mr. Jones?" The little boy looked at him curiously. Alabama snapped out of it. Slavery was illegal now. But racism wasn't. "Are you okay?"

"I'm okay." He said. He didn't know if he believed it or not. And he wasn't sure if the boy did, but he didn't say anything. "What's your name, little man?"

"Jimmy!" The little boy, Jimmy, said brightly. Before he could say anything else, the people around them started to whisper. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. walked towards the crowd, his fedora pulled down over his head.

"We're ready." He said simply. His voice was warm and quiet and commanding and Alabama with everyone else, was entranced.

Alabama grabbed the little boy and put him up on his shoulders. Men and women and other children started to walk -- to March. Peacefully, arms linked together in their Sunday best.

When they got to the bridge, they didn't stop walking, even though the police officers were there waiting for them. Some men and women hesitated, looked around for their loved ones and their children in the crowd--most didn't stop though. And neither did Alabama. He was proud to march for his people--from black Americans. And he was even prouder to do it with Dr. Martin Luther King like this.

But then the march turned into a riot and there was nothing anyone could do about it.

The air was thick with blood and body odor and tear gas. Alabama couldn't see. He couldn't breathe. He tried to run and tripped over a warm body; the boy on his shoulders ended up falling off. And he never saw him again.

The screaming was deafening. He forced himself up and then bent down blindly to feel for who he had fallen over. It was a young woman.

He helped her to the street where she could be safe, but as Alabama looked around, he realized just what had happened. White men were beating old men in patched coats; women were screaming and running; little children had red eyes from the tear gas and desperate to find their parents.

Nothing would be okay. No one would be safe. Not as long as racism existed in the world, at least.


End file.
